


in a world gone berserk

by Leblanc1 (orphan_account)



Category: Homeland
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Leblanc1
Summary: Quinn actually has been keeping his vote secret, says it’s about freedom, that the privacy is the point. Leaving this up for posterity, I guess? We got the title right, at least.





	

**Author's Note:**

> VOTE! It's important. 
> 
> If you're not sure where to vote, Google has a super helpful tool with polling information for every district in the US.

It’s usually Quinn who picks Franny up from school, but on Election Day they go together. Carrie scoops her daughter into her arms and closes the curtain of the booth behind them. “All right, honey,” she says, balancing Franny on her left hip while she examines the ballot. “Who should Mommy vote for?”

She can hear a derisive snort from the adjacent stall. “It’s not nice to eavesdrop,” she adds in a hushed whisper. “Voting is supposed to be _private_.”

Carrie picks up the pen and hovers over the paper. “What do you think? Donald Trump?”

Franny scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.

“Smart kid,” Carrie grins. “Hillary it is.”

She makes her way efficiently down the ballot as Franny looks on. Her kid is terrified of Donald Trump, covers her ears whenever he’s on television. Quinn thinks it’s hilarious, comments often on how she’s got her mom’s intuition.

He’s waiting outside, just at the edge of the line of voting booths. “Who did _you_ vote for?” she asks.

Quinn actually has been keeping his vote secret, says it’s about freedom, that the privacy is the point. He just smiles at her, a little indulgent, and she glares. “I have a _daughter_ ,” she points out.

It isn’t even like she can’t guess, she just wants him to say it. “I know,” he says instead, and he tips his head down to kiss Franny on the forehead, then Carrie.

They feed their ballots into the machine, one after another, and are each rewarded with an “I Voted” sticker. Carrie peels hers off and affixes it to Franny’s cheek.

Quinn sticks his own to Carrie’s.

-

He remembers when the argument started.

The first debate, Franny tucked in bed, a bottle of Chardonnay on the coffee table. Hillary had said, “Donald supported the invasion of Iraq.”

Trump had blurted, “wrong.”

Carrie’s mouth had opened slightly, then closed in shock, before she turned to Quinn and said, “so what is our fallback plan?” At Quinn’s silence, she had pressed, “we have one, right?”

Quinn had blinked, eyes flashing from the television to his partner, one angry blonde to another. “For what?” he’d finally asked.

“For if this asshole wins!”

The corner of his mouth had ticked up ever-so-slightly. “Well, they both supported the war. I’m pretty sure you did too.”

She’d pivoted on the couch, facing him, scrutinizing his expression as she attempted to deduce his true motives for this absurd challenge. “Of course I did. Based on _completely_ false information sold to the world in a con job by George W. Bush.”

Enjoying himself, he’d leaned back, hands behind his head. “And who drummed up the con, Mathison? Let me think. Oh, that’s right, _your_ place of employment. Facilitated, most likely, by your career-long mentor.”

“You do _not_ know that,” Carrie’d argued, in battle mode.

“Ever ask him?” Quinn had asked, arm slipping around her as he pulled her onto his lap.

Staring down at him, Carrie’s brow had furrowed. “No, but…” Realization, then horror, suddenly must have dawned her, because she said, “wait. _You’re_ not planning on voting for this fucker, are you?”

“That’s classified,” he’d answered, clicking off the television, pressing a kiss to her neck. “C’mon, let’s go fight it out in bed.”

-

The second had gone no better than the first — martinis this time, devolving into straight vodka for Carrie while Quinn had gone into the kitchen for a beer.

He’d returned to find her in a red-hot tailspin of indignation, her face contorted with fury. On her feet, one hand pointed at the flatscreen, the other waving at nothing. “Look! Look at how he is fucking _hulking_ over her. He’s literally stalking her around the stage while she’s trying address that war widow. _Look!”_

He hadn’t looked, just smiled and put down his beer before stepping forward and gently grasping Carrie’s shoulders, looming over her with his full height. “What’s wrong with hulking?”

Determined not to get the obvious joke, Carrie had jerked out of his grip in a gesture that felt vaguely familiar to him. “Maybe you could order a drone strike on him, Carrie.”

Jaw set, she'd whirled back to look at him. _“Tell_ me you aren’t voting for him, Quinn. I need to know.”

He’d sunk down onto the couch, picking up his drink and mock-toasting her before saying blandly, unconvincingly, “I’m not voting for him.”

“I’m not kidding, Quinn.”

He’d winked. “Neither am I. It’s personal.”

Carrie had nodded slowly, and he’d observed her as she contemplated her options. It had been clear to him the precise moment that she made her decision. “I’m watching in the bedroom.” She’d retrieved her glass and the vodka — when Quinn had helpfully pointed out the vermouth, she’d turned to glare. “No sex tonight.”

-

For debate number three, they’d sent Franny for a sleepover with her visiting aunt and cousins. Tequila this time, salt and limes neatly arranged on a plate beside the bottle.

Obviously tired of Quinn’s _fuck it_ attitude, Carrie sat quietly at the edge of the couch, eerily calm. It hadn’t taken long for Quinn to decide that he missed their game, and he’d pulled her foot into his lap and said, “no hysteria tonight, Carrie?”

She’d refused to take the bait, but he’d been rewarded by her narrowed eyes. A few minutes later, when Hillary had nearly floundered when confronted with her TPP flip-flop, Quinn said, “he’s got her there.”

Carrie had remained silent.

When Hillary had offered to “translate” a question about the rise in GDP, and Trump barked, “ _you can’t,_ ” Quinn had chuckled.

 _Finally_ , when Donald asked her what the she’d been doing for the past thirty years, given the state of the government, Quinn said, “gotcha,” and Carrie lost it.

She’d wrenched her foot out of his lap and had gone to her knees. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me, Quinn? You cannot be serious about this — this — psychotic, narcissistic, bigoted, racist, egomaniacal, pathologically-lying sociopath.”

He’d swallowed his laugh. “Those in glass houses, Carrie…”

“Oh, _fuck_ off. He just finished accusing her of wanting to abort babies in their ninth month. Plus, okay, he defended minors having automatic weapons, advocated the destruction of NATO, and insulted seventeen generals!”

“He’s kicking ass, I’d say. She’s on the defensive.”

“You can’t be fucking serious,” she’d snapped, and Quinn had smiled, looping his arm around her waist and pulling her onto his lap.

“It’s true,” he’d whispered and then kissed her, avoiding her next argument. For a minute she’d given in, he thought she might even be ready to drop it, but she’d pulled back, biting at his bottom lip.

“I cannot be with a fucking Trump supporter,” she’d exhaled, forehead pressed against his. “So tell me now, or get the fuck out.”

“If I cop to it, you kick me out. If I don’t, you kick me out. Seems like you’re asking me to lie.”

“Fuck you! Tell me. Now.”

“You’re sexy as fuck when you get angry, Carrie. Why don’t we just work it out in bed? I can grab your pussy.”

“Get out!”

“You can fantasize about Billy Bush if you’re too pissed at me.”

“I said, get out!”

“You want me to leave because you think I’m a Trump supporter?”

“No, I want you to leave because you won’t tell me you’re _not_.”

“Okay.”

But he hadn’t left, just kissed her again, long and hard, before lifting her as he stood. He’d taken her to the bedroom, lain her down on the bed, and said, “have a good night, Carrie.”

And as he’d anticipated, Carrie had pulled him to the bed after her, and her politically-charged fury transformed into some of the best sex they’d ever had.

-

At night, when she tucks in Franny, she promises her daughter that Hillary will win. “And it’s proof, honey, that you can be whatever you want.”

-

Carrie starts drinking early on election night, leaves the liquor cabinet wide open. Quinn is patiently drinking whiskey while Carrie, antsy, sticks to wine.

She’s done arguing with him, for now — what’s done is done, she guesses, but if Trump wins she _is_ taking her daughter the hell out of this fucked-up country. New Zealand, maybe. Nobody wants to bomb New Zealand, right? Plus, hobbits.

“Massachusetts!” she exclaims as the call is officially made.

“Of course fuckin’ Massachusetts goes blue,” Quinn murmurs agreeably, and he kisses her neck.

Later, New York. “That’s 29. No thanks to you.” She elbows him in the side.

“Sure, Carrie.”

She can barely focus on the television, Quinn’s hand is sliding up her tank top.

By the time Florida is called officially for Hillary, all but sealing her win, Carrie is four glasses in and on her back, eyes flitting between the television and Quinn’s face. His hand curls around her breast, thumb brushing over a nipple.

“She’s gonna win,” Carrie breathes, but Quinn’s mouth is on her throat and she can’t see his eyes. She tangles her hand into his hair and tugs, pulling him up to look at her.

“I know.”

“You voted for Johnson, didn’t you? You fucking wasted your vote on the Libertarians.”

He actually smiles. “Come on, Carrie. Johnson didn’t know what Aleppo was. Give me some fuckin’ credit.”

Carrie’s hand flies to her forehead as she groans in defeat. “Great. So you voted for Trump. I’m in love with a fucking Trump supporter.”

“Carrie, I’m a soldier. An officer. Eighty percent of us are Republican. At least I’m not a terrorist.” His eyes sparkle. “Although you might prefer that.”

He reaches down to pull her shirt over her head, his other hand working at the edge of her yoga pants. Carrie slaps his bicep, defeated. “Say it.”

“What?” Quinn asks, standing up to pull off his own shirt and pants before returning to Carrie.

“I want you to say, out loud, that you voted for that fucker. I need to know the depths of my moral decrepitude before I let you make love to me.”

He slides her pants down her thighs, slowly exposing her. “Carrie, relax,” he says, once he’s settled between her legs.

“Why?” she asks, gasping as he pushes inside of her.

Quinn stills, connected, and brings his forehead close to hers. “You know I have a thing for pushy blonde women.”

She wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer, and she smiles. “Thank _God_ ,” she murmurs, and this time, she kisses him back.

**Author's Note:**

> We jinxed it with our stupid fic. - ACAT


End file.
